Dear Little Black Book He Called A Diary
by xBAKAxNEKOx
Summary: Nothing really. Just a short entry about love and death.


Dear Little Black Book He Called A Diary,

I remember when I first came to this town where it rained all the time, the small, peaceful, nice town cursed with aweful weather. It's funny, I've been here for a few months and I don't even know the name of it. But I'll never really know the name of it. I just don't give a damn about it anymore.

I was asked if I was going to die. I said I already had. I was asked who I was. I said I wasn't sure. I was told that I would always have a home here. I said they were liars.

I'm too stubborn to go to his grave. To attend his funeral. But I'm not stubborn enough to avenge his death. He died from a betryal, the same people who had hired him to stab me in the back. I have to ask myself sometimes if it was ever really true. Our love. Our lust. We thought what we had would last forever. But that was silly for me to think that. Nothing lasts forever with me. Because I'm a lost soul, I'm the person who loses everything good that happens to her before she even realizes that it's hers. I'm the person who was stupid enough to believe in those eyes that held nothing.

But they weren't empty, they were just blank. Just there. They didn't seem to have a purpose, but that's only what they seemed. They did have a purpose. Their purpose was to catch my gaze every time I wasn't looking at him, to hold it, and for him to ask me that question, which was then followed by an order. Or, maybe, it was just another question, in some weird way.

"Do you love me?" He'd ask me in those moments our eyes met.  
"Yes." I would reply without even thinking.  
"Then embrace me."   
That night I held him, my arms around his neck, our eyes up at the stars as rain fell from the clouds we couldn't see. The rain always fell there, but somehow holding him under the blanket of stars and the rain falling down on us gently, damping down my straight hair, felt so different that when it just fell on us as we walked around during the day.

Many nights followed like that one. Many days were spent with us running in the alleyways, the cold metal of guns pressed firmly aganist our hands, and our fingers on the trigger ready to pull it. And how many times we did pull it those days. Another coffin was bought, sometimes more than one.Some days we were together, and others we were apart.But not really, because anytime I did look into someone's eyes his were staring right back at me.

I wonder if that will be a lasting thing. If anytime I look into a person's eyes, no matter what color or how much emotion they hold, his blank, dark dark blue eyes will be staring back into my brown ones-the ones he said looked like melted choclate. But I think if that is true I might go insane.

I might have the cold metal of the gun pressed aganist my skin for one last time and pull the trigger, then seeing nothing.

Nothing but his dark, blank blue eyes.

"Do you love me?" he touched my hand and I felt myself shiver.  
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't."  
"Then do it." I obeyed his request, holding the blade out and running it across his palm. Then my own. We were fools, and we knew it, but we put our hands together and whispered into the cold, crisp air, "Happily ever after." That evening we rode off into the sunset and into the rain.

I remember the first time I met him, it was in the rain, and he looked at me and said, "The rain can be annoying, can't it? But at the same time it can be the best thing to happen to a person." I didn't really know what he meant by that, and I never took the time to understand it, but now that I sit here thinking about it I know exactly what he means. I think I always knew exactly what she meants. 

"Do you love me?" he ran a hand across my thigh..   
"Of course." I answered ,smirking.  
"Then touch me." And I did, I ran my timid hands down his back, traced a heart on his chest, and he gave the closest thing to a smile he could, and ran one of his hands through my hair. I loved his touch. It was so firm, yet so gentle. It was like lemonade with vodka. That night I forgot about all the bad, unlucky things that had been going on. We got in bed, and screwed. It wasn't the childhood lust I had as a young teenager at those parties I'd get drunk and stoned at, it was something real. Or else that's what he made it seemed.

He made everything seem one way, though it was probably really another. Because just how I was a born business person, he was a oscar winning actor.

And I was his audience.

"Do you love me?" he asked, the gun in his hands. I hesistated that day when the rain wasn't falling but he said it would.  
"Yes." I replied finally.  
"Then you have to let go." I didn't want to that day, I didn't want to follow his command that time. I wanted to be held him, to kiss him, to mutter "Soul mates," in all our stupidity and mocking. I want it to be like it was before, but that wasn't possible. My bad luck was back.

Because my bad luck had never left.

The last night I ever saw him, I thought I hated him but I didn't. I loved him, and I realized how much I did that night when we stood on the roof, his chest bleeding as his lip quivered. He did it for me. He betrayed me, but he came back. Which made him lose his role. I wanted to help him, but I didn't know how.

"Do you love me?" he asked as I leaned down next to him.  
"I always have." I replied, teas rising to my eyes.  
"Then end this."  
I looked at him, my hands shaking a little as I held the gun. The cold metal hitting me, feeling so unfamiliar. So unwanting. His face was expressionless, cold. His eyes vacant. His eyes met mine again, and I wanted so bad to look away but couldn't. That was my weakness with him; I couldn't look away.  
"Please."

I pulled the trigger and watched as he fell, and as his gaze was still empty. I had pulled the trigger, but they had killed him. I hadn't wanted anything bad to happen to him, so I couldn't let him go through that pain. I had to end his suffering, because that was what she commanded me to do. Because I loved him.

Love is great.   
Love is bad.  
What is there to say?  
Love can be something you feel or something you think you feel.  
Love is dangerous but something great.  
Love is easy.  
It's easy to love.  
What's so hard about it is making it last.

Just the way it was. 

Dear diary, that is all I have to say.

Sincerly, 

This lost soul


End file.
